It Not Starts in San Francisco
by muertalas
Summary: It's more of the middle of the story. Nobody Owens has always flirted with Death, aware of it or not.


I've never written anything for The Sandman before, especially not for Death's character, so I'm a little wary of whether or not I completely butchered her character.  
I apologize if I did so. Sincerely so. The Sandman is my favorite comic book series, and I wish to do the characters justice.  
The Graveyard Book... well, I love it. Basically anything that Gaiman writes, really.

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It Not-Starts in San Francisco

The dark-haired boy with sober gray eyes and what looked like a permanently grave face stepped off of the slightly slanted, creaky cable car and onto the street. A rucksack hung off of his slender shoulders, a gray sweatshirt with rolled up sleeves adorning half of his body, going down to his mid-thighs. And when the boy stepped off the cable car onto the steep road, he couldn't resist a slight smile as he breathed in the polluted, new air; the pedestrians, visitor or otherwise, ignored him, continued on their merry ways as the new boy with dark hair and stormy eyes took in the sights of this new city.

Shops were open and prosperous, with a satisfied customer exiting every other moment, while propositioning ones went through the doors with curious looks on their faces. It took the young boy much of his willpower not to stroll into each and every store and spend the money stuffed inside the beat-up leather wallet that sat within his jeans pocket.

The boy turned and walked up the street, his rucksack banging slightly against his back, his possessions hitting against each other somewhat. He looked up at the hazy, cloud-filled sky, and then back down at the busy-body street that honeycombed like a beehive, the inhabitants worker bees and soldier bees and perhaps mothering bees that looked after the Queen's larva; the boy cocked his head slightly at the idea.

The identification card and passport in his wallet, next to his kind of, but not sort of, dwindling bundle of cash, read the name Nobody Owens.

Nobody stopped atop the hill and stared out at the bay, the smog covering it like a blanket though the lights of the multiple boats and cars illuminated the water and docks and marina as best as they could. He breathed out and in, the stench of exhaust and undercooked hot dogs wafting about his nostrils. He leaned against a street sign for a moment, gazing out at the Golden Gate Bridge that, in his opinion, did not look particularly golden from where he stood.

"Hello Bod," came a feminine voice from next to him, and Bod turned. The woman was breathtakingly beautiful, though perhaps a bit too pale for a human. Her flyaway black hair and the ankh hanging around her neck from a chain, the black tanktop and tight jeans, the smile playing upon her lips and the swirl going down one of her eyes that suspiciously appeared to be make-up though Bod couldn't really be sure: She looked eerily familiar. The woman gestured to the sight he'd been seeing and said, "Nice view, isn't it?"

Bod nodded. "Do I... know you, per chance?"

Her smile grew wider by a fraction of an inch and she pressed her hand up against the metal pole that the boy himself was leaning on. "You, my boy, have been flirting with me for a long, long time."

Recognition hit Bod like an angry bull and he flushed in both excitement and embarrassment. He straightened, eyes widened and hands raised, waving. "I-I... my God–" he stuttered before the woman hushed him with a finger to her lips.

"Whoever said I didn't enjoy it?" she asked, one hand on her hip as she leaned toward the teenaged boy with a little grin twitching at the tips of her mouth. "I've been glimpsing you for a while, Bod, and you're always just toying with me. It's quite fun, actually, this game of ours, eh?"

"Yeah," Bod agreed, "but we both know who'll win in the end."

"Oh," the woman straightened and placed both of her hands behind her head, tilting backwards and staring above her where seagulls gazed back at her from the roof of the nearest building. She beamed at them and they cocked their heads. "I don't know. It could end up like the game my brother and sister-brother seem to play."

Bod shook his head.

"You don't think so?"

"No. I'm mortal." Bod smiled then, a rare lift of the lips that disappeared just as quickly as it brightened his face. "Just really good at playing Hide-and-Seek."

A breeze flew by as the woman laughed, a thousand tiny, silver bells punctuating and echoing the noise, and Bod felt a familiar chill crawl up his spine.

"I know," said she, continuing to gaze up at the birds, "I'm just repaying you for the teasing."

Bod asked in a sheepish voice, "Like a child would?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. You'll never know, huh?"

"I will," he disagreed for the second time, "Silas told me. I just have to wait for the Lady on the Gray, which is you, if I'm right. You're just not on a horse."

The woman laughed again. "Nope, you got me there. I don't have a horse here, but, other places, yeah, I'm riding a horse. And in another country entirely, I am a completely different form. Another planet: same deal." She turned to him, lowered her arms and let them hang at her sides. "But yes, Bod, you know me as the Lady on the Gray."

He bowed deeply at his waist and glanced up at her. "You're a great dancer, m'lady." A smile tugged at his lips once more.

"I can say the same for you, good sir," she curtsied with a childish mocking that wasn't really mocking.

Bod walked towards her, passed her, and gazed towards the Golden Gate Bridge with squinted, new eyes. The sun had passed through the clouds and smog and had hit the metal; it looked golden now, gleaming cars driving across it, their drivers listening to music or talking on their wireless ear pieces to a co-worker or stepmother or brother. He stuck his hands into his pocket, hand clasping around something cold and metallic he'd found somewhere that he couldn't really recall at that point in time. Bod withdrew it and held it out to the lady, Death, only to see that it was a large ring with an emerald placed into the center of it.

Death grinned softly at him.

"For you," said Bod, "You should have it."

Death curled her hand over the ring and his own hand, pressing it on his chest with gentle force.

"Give it to Silas the next time you see him," she said, "or Liza. She'd like it. You don't need to give me anything."

Bod frowned. "But you should have it."

"No," said Death, "if you want, save it until we meet for the last time. It would mean more then," she chuckled.

Bod nodded, feeling meek suddenly, like a recently scorned child. He placed the ring back into his pocket daintily, carefully. Death turned her head at him and laughed quietly.

"You don't need to feel _bad_, borderline boy," she pushed him lightly. When he didn't respond, she sighed angrily. "The last time someone I knew started feeling sorry for themselves, I yelled. Loudly. And wanted to punch them. Hard." She raised an eyebrow, "Don't lemme do that to you, Mr. Nobody Owens. You're too nice of a boy for that."

"Now you're – what was the word you used? Flirting? What's that mean, anyway? – well, whatever. You're toying with me now."

Death nodded, dark eyes glinting. "Why yes I am."

Bod smiled before mimicking her position against the building's wall, his rucksack hitting the red brick instead of his back. He crossed his arms across his chest and looked once more at the Bridge. A thought, a question crossed his mind and he turned to ask, "Hey, when will you ever let me–"

But the lady Death was gone.

"– ride your horse...?"

Only the wind answered him, with the laugh of a thousand tiny, silver bells.


End file.
